


SOME FAITH

by spicyshimmy



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-28
Updated: 2011-08-28
Packaged: 2017-10-23 04:14:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/246174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spicyshimmy/pseuds/spicyshimmy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hawke goads his little brother into doing something about his handsome superior. That's what family's for. <i>When Carver sees his brother leaning against the marble slab—rubbing his beard and laughing at his own jokes and standing too close to the Knight-Captain—it’s not the first time he’s caught him flirting with a templar.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	SOME FAITH

When Carver sees his brother leaning against the marble slab—rubbing his beard and laughing at his own jokes and standing too close to the Knight-Captain—it’s not the first time he’s caught him flirting with a templar.

But this is Carver’s place now, Carver’s life, Carver’s barracks, and Carver’s Knight-Captain. It isn’t Ostagar, just a quick boat-ride from the docks, but the walls are high and the sun unforgiving, hot prickles of sweat above the burn on the back of Carver’s neck.

Light glints off the sun-shield on his chest, and Garrett leaves without saying goodbye.

He didn’t even say _hello_ to begin with.

*

Mother writes twice a week without fail. She’d write more if Carver hadn’t told her, in ink, not to bother.

He knows what his brother’s had for breakfast, for lunch, for supper, how late he stays out most nights, and the weight he’s gained from indulging in Hightown luxury now that he finally has it, a crest, a big bed and a proper title. He knows about the visits from the Captain of the Guard and the apostate, too, the jobs he’s done for the Viscount, what scraps Garrett feeds their mother to keep her happy. He senses the danger beneath it, the danger Mother can’t put into words.

 _But at least you’re not working for that Meeran any longer_ , Mother adds, a gentle touch, just as much relief as it is accusation, written the same way she’d say it to his face, if he’d only let her visit.

Carver was the one who liked Meeran best. He has a scar from his navel to his hipbone to thank for it, the memory of his brother’s hands hot and cool by turns and glowing against his skin, and the memory of his brother’s eyes over the arcane glow, deep and tawny, the exact same color as Father’s.

 _Mother_ , Carver begins.

The word stares back at him, blank on the page. It says too little. It says too much. He holds the pen in his hand not nearly the same way he holds a sword, not nearly the same way Garrett wields a staff, and writes: _I’m eating well here. The food isn’t all bad. Don’t worry about me._

*

‘Your brother’s up to all sorts of things these days, isn’t he?’ the Knight-Captain mentions, friendly enough, just after practice, while Carver wipes the sweat from his brow, and refuses to wince at the rough cloth as it scrapes a fresh burn.

Blood mages are their top priority, but in the open courtyard of the Gallows, the summer sun comes close to being a templar’s worst enemy.

Or best enemy.

Carver’s never been sure about that phrase.

‘It seems to me that all of Kirkwall is talking about him, these days,’ the Knight-Captain adds. He looks Carver up and down, checking that each strap’s buckled in its proper place, each segment fitted in standard order, while the sweat drips down Carver’s spine and pools at his lower back, above the tattoo he never should have gotten—the tattoo he’s proud of all the same.

‘So I’ve heard,’ Carver says, and puts his shoulder behind his shield, cheek against hot metal, body braced for impact.

*

They bathe together, some scarred, some pale and clean, the new recruits wanting to ask about the mabari stamped dark on Carver’s left arse-cheek, but minding their manners at the last, holding their tongues.

Not at all like family, then.

They’re a sober group at first, but before long they’re hollering and splashing, talking about which of the female recruits has the biggest tits, or who they saw at the Blooming Rose getting a quick one in from Sabina for free. Carver listens, but only gives his opinion on Faith, his very own brothel experience from his first year in Kirkwall.

Ruvena and the other girls are more like sisters to him. Carver had a sister once, and he knows better than to talk about their figures.

Just because they aren’t around doesn’t mean it won’t get back to them. New recruits are just as trapped as mages when it comes to leaving the Gallows; they don’t have time for freedom, but they do have time for talk.

The Knight-Captain sits up to his waist in hot water, one arm braced against the tiled floor. He pretends to ignore their rough-housing, but even through the steam Carver can see his cheeks growing pinker.

There’s a scar on the Knight-Captain’s shoulder that travels from the edge of his collar-bone down the left side of his chest. _From his time in Ferelden_ , Ser Thrask said once, but he wouldn’t elaborate. Carver wants to ask about it, but that’s when Paxley decides to bring out his impression of Knight-Commander Meredith, with a pair of rolled up washcloths for breasts.

The Knight-Captain’s out of the bath and shouting before Carver can blink the water from his lashes, and there’s no time to be self-conscious about the mabari, since the last man to order’s getting fifty extra pull-ups next morning.

Carver’s arms are still sore from _yesterday’s_ run-through.

*

Some men wear the armor better than others. Carver’s neck burns and peels, and the padding between his body and the steel plate is soaked with sweat before midday.

Hugh leans against the stone columns when he’s on patrol, body relaxed beneath the bronze-wrought suffering of a Gallows-slave. Even Ser Thrask prefers to stand in the shade, arms crossed to keep his shoulders straight.

Only the Knight-Captain doesn’t show the weight on his shoulders. He stands at the mouth of the Gallows in the full sunlight, questioning new arrivals and greeting eager family members.

‘He isn’t _human,_ ’ one recruit hisses to another, face ruddy and dripping, hair soaked through.

‘Mind your tongue,’ Carver says, lifting an armored hand to shield his tired eyes.

*

It’s days before Garrett returns to the Gallows, pretending he’s got some treasure in a stained leather pouch. Carver looks away, not wanting to see who it’s for or how heavy it is, which is all that allows his brother to sneak up on him.

His staff is braced right there on his broad back, as though he thinks having a brother in the order is a free pass, or getting locked up in the Circle is something that only happens to _other_ mages.

It isn’t, but Garrett’s always dealt with danger however he wants—or not at all, more like. He shouldn’t be here, in Carver’s place, in Carver’s way, but that only makes him want it more, same as ever.

Carver doesn’t look for the differences Mother won’t stop going on about, but there’s a burn-mark slashed sideways over the waist of Garrett’s robes and another across his forearm, redder than Keran after shield practice. His bangs stick to his forehead, and there’s blood in his beard, and there’s no reason he couldn’t have bathed before showing up, except to prove a point.

He isn’t here to flirt with the Knight-Captain. Carver’s the only person he doesn’t bother to wash up for.

‘Do you know what this is?’ Garrett asks, jiggling the pouch in Carver’s face. The mabari used to do that when it was just a puppy, _showing_ its prizes to Carver, but _bringing_ them to Garrett.

Sometimes Carver isn’t sure which has the better personality—his brother, or that dog.

‘Do I care?’ Carver parries. Across the courtyard, he can see the Knight-Captain stirring with reluctant interest, though he’s much too good to shift focus on duty.

But Garrett has a brother in the templars now, and the templars _are_ the Knight-Captain’s interest. It might have been easier to ignore before, but it won’t stay easy forever.

There’s no reason for things to be so easy for him, when they aren’t for anyone else.

‘It’s the heart of a Varterral,’ Garrett says, rolling the r’s like one of his elf friends. ‘Some enormous Dalish pet—or monster; I wasn’t entirely clear on that in the first place. Anyway, it’s dead now, so I suppose the details don’t matter.’

‘Let me guess: it was a fire-breathing Varterral?’ Carver says, just so his brother knows he isn’t getting away with anything. Not on Carver’s watch, even if he’s got no idea what a Varterral is.

‘No,’ Garrett admits, and he rakes a hand through his damp hair, with enough decency to look sheepish. ‘But I ran into another dragon on the way here.’

‘Save it for your adoring public,’ Carver suggests.

Garrett doesn’t wince. Garrett never winces. ‘You’re right,’ he says instead. ‘I think I’ll go tell the _Knight-Captain_ all about it.’

*

 _Maybe you could talk to your brother_ , Mother’s letter reads.

But Carver’s never known how to do that. It doesn’t make sense to get started now, when Garrett only talks to everyone else.

*

‘Did you receive that wound from your time at Ostagar, Ser Carver?’ the Knight-Captain asks. Polite, friendly interest—nothing more. The mark of a fine superior is interest in his troops.

Carver remembers that lesson from Ostagar, if nothing else.

He rubs the length of the scar at his hip, the soft flesh more sensitive for all the dead bits in between, and feels the old ache, his brother’s careless touch trying and failing to heal it to something better than it was before. It’s swallowed up by the water when Carver settles in, and somewhere close by Paxley makes Keran splutter and cough.

‘No,’ he says. There are things his Knight-Captain doesn’t know about him, but he didn’t go through his Vigil for nothing, all the truth and honesty seared into the flesh, leaving no scars and no ink but meaning everything. ‘I got it smuggling for a Fereldan mercenary. Not exactly noble, is it?’

‘We’ve all done things we aren’t proud of,’ the Knight-Captain tells him, as though it means anything to a man for whom the opposite isn’t also true.

Carver doesn’t ask him about his scars. It’s too personal, and sometimes, he can’t even look at them.

*

 _So sorry I didn’t write back sooner_ , Garrett’s letter says.

It’s been three months since Carver wrote him—wrote him first, and saw no reply. Mother stopped asking about it eventually, and she thinks what she wants to think, and loves them both, same as always.

Carver tells himself it doesn’t matter whether it sat on Garrett’s bedside table or got eaten by the dog, lost by a house dwarf or put on the pile of _things that aren’t as important as everything else_ , second from the top, gathering dust in the study.

 _Been a bit busy, as you can imagine._

Carver crumples it up, because action, the Knight-Captain always says, is necessary— _do, don’t tell_ , but Carver can’t forget about it either way.

*

Whenever Garrett visits the Knight-Captain, he rests one hand on his hip, thumb looped into the belt, wearing smuggler’s cut trousers and wide blue sleeves. His staff knocks against the marble, a faint noise that doesn’t sound like anything over the chaos of the courtyard, the armorer shouting about slashed prices and the weaponsmith praising his half-forged wares.

*

‘I got the tattoo at Ostagar,’ Carver begins, hating the words, but he remembers the way Garrett does it—leaning against marble, brow dipping low and smile hinting wide—and what the Knight-Captain believes in, action above promise, action _as_ promise.

 _A little action wouldn’t hurt_ , Garrett would say, and the color of his voice, the laugh in his eyes, would give all meaning away.

‘Oh?’ The Knight-Captain blinks, wiping his brow where the steam gathers, a lone drop of water trickling down his temple, running along the line of one sharp cheekbone. The baths are the only place Carver ever sees him sweat. ‘Ah—yes. It’s a mabari, isn’t it?’

‘I can make it bark,’ Carver adds. His throat’s thick in the heat when he thinks of how Garrett would laugh at him, body doubling over and palm slapping his thigh at the idea of _Carver_ making pleasant conversation with anyone.

The Knight-Captain’s eyes drop to the water, then lift to Carver’s face. He knows how to stop himself. Some people don’t.

But he isn’t the sort of man to laugh at simple jokes, or demand a demonstration. Weary lines form an intricate map over his Fereldan face, clustered delicate as spider-silk at the corners of his mouth, and in the space between his brows. He isn’t a young man. He’s older than Garrett.

Curiosity flickers in the Knight-Captain’s pale eyes and Carver knows he’s _wondering._ Thinking about Carver’s arse, and what it’d take to make the tattoo move.

Only Garrett would get his brother into a position like this one, but only _Carver_ would be stupid enough to rise to the bait.

‘I’ve never gone under the needle, myself,’ the Knight-Captain adds. As though Carver hasn’t already seen every inch of him, from the pale curve of a bony ankle to the tanned nape of his neck. He’s too polite _not_ to continue the conversation, even if they both know it’s gone awkward. ‘Just the sword. And the staff, as you can see.’

He shrugs, one-shouldered, baring his scar to the air, and Carver suddenly feels like Garrett’s in the bath with them, goading him on, splashing him from behind, laughing as always. But Garrett has no place here, and no call to flirt with Carver’s Knight-Captain.

Carver moves, water swirling against his chest as he leans one wet arm outside the bath. Shield-bruises line his wrists. He flexes his fingers until they can’t stretch anymore, then lets go at last.

‘What was it like in the Fereldan Circle?’ he asks. He wonders if it can be that simple.

And the Knight-Captain never has to know he’s heard it all before, from his father’s stories.

*

He isn’t expecting the second letter from Garrett—not when Carver couldn’t be bothered to reply to the first—and for a long time, he doesn’t want to open it.

Maybe Mother said something, or maybe there’s trouble. As much joy as it gives Carver to think of his brother laid up in bed, his chest constricts at the thought of the hurt it would take to keep him there.

He could use another sword. Someone besides the surly elf, whose feelings on mages mean he shouldn’t be one for a mage to trust. But _his_ skin’s what they all talk about, not Garrett’s.

Carver puts the damn thing down. After supper, he thinks. When his stomach isn’t an angry knot, nothing more than empty.

*

It’s a short letter, thin through the envelope, with a red seal from Garrett’s ring. Carver carries it under his breastplate the next morning, through training with Ruvena and Hugh, then lunch with Keran and Paxley.

They’re out in the courtyard, late afternoon sun slanting across the wide, white stones, before Carver looks the Knight-Captain’s way and remembers it’s there, between padding and armor, not so close as skin. He’s thankful for the distance between him and the senior templars, reaching pasts the straps of his chestplate to dig out the damp paper.

 _The good Knight-Captain has a lot on his mind,_ Garrett writes, hand cramped and difficult to read. Too _busy,_ he’d say, to take proper time with it. _A good man would give him some relief._

Carver balls the note in his glove, shoving it back beneath his silverite before anyone else can get a look at it.

*

Carver’s brother thinks every man wants to be relieved of his duties, to tramp up Sundermount slaying demons along the way. But the Knight-Captain suffers, Carver knows, because of distraction itself.

From his post at the stairs, Carver waits for the Knight-Captain to appear, closing the solid oak doors to Knight-Commander Meredith’s office behind him. The man wears a frown well, sometimes better than Carver himself.

‘Dinner?’ Carver asks, when the Knight-Captain draws level with him against the railing.

It’s late, but the mess is always open.

‘I did miss lunch,’ the Knight-Captain admits, with a tinge of regret. ‘A full stomach goes a long way toward a clear mind. …Thank you, Ser Carver.’

 _You’re welcome,_ Carver thinks, but he’s never known how to face gratitude straight-on. Instead, he nods, baring his sunburned neck with a bob of his head.

After dinner, he’ll write home, to let Mother know he’s eating well. _Tell brother to stop fighting dragons_ , he’ll add, and let Garrett sort that mess out.

 **END**


End file.
